I think I’m being told he’s not happy with my plans for the mill. Despite his best efforts not to, he’s looking at me.
‘Do those drawings, the pencil marks on the wall, do they mean something to you?’
He nods slowly. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s you, isn’t it? The mayor said there could be another buyer for the mill, if I wanted to sell, if I had to go home because I couldn’t get a visa. It’s you, isn’t it? I saw you at the mayor’s office that first day.’
He takes a deep breath, still drying and polishing cups and glasses, putting them on the shelf above his head. ‘As I say, it’s a mill. It should stay a mill.Le moulinis a very special place.’
‘I know that. So can I assume you know something about the drawings, then? There’s a heart. A name …’
He stops polishing and stares at me. ‘My grandparents,’ he says. ‘My grandfather was the last miller there.’
‘Then you know how the bread here was made …’ I say tentatively.
‘I have been around bread all my life,’ he replies, ‘but I am not a baker.’
‘But if you have been around bread, then … you can help me?’
He laughs. ‘And why would I want to do that? Help out someone who has arrived in a town they know nothing about, with plans to change everything about the old mill that has been at the heart of this village for decades and who now thinks theycan just live a new life, making bread?’ He throws up a hand as if in despair.
His words hit hard and I feel backed into a corner. ‘Or maybe you have a chip on your shoulder about people buying houses in France for cheap prices?’ I ask evenly.
‘Non,’ he says crossly, ‘not any property.’
‘Just the mill?’
‘The mill should be kept for the community. It should at least be remembered for the building it was, the part it played in the area’s history.’
And I can’t help batting back a home truth. ‘But without theboulangerie, you don’t have a community.’
‘And soon without atabactoo,’ puts in Gilles, sitting at the bar. ‘Sorry, Laurent. But you have no customers. You can’t keep this place going for ever without more people,’ he says, in French.
Laurent frowns at him. ‘All the time I’m here, you still have somewhere to go when your wife shoos you out of the house for the day.’
They all nod in agreement.
‘And we only come here because there is nowhere else to go,’ says Gilles. He and the other two men sip their mid-morningpastis.
‘Look,’ I say, hoping to get this back on friendlier terms, ‘I’m sure you could help me if you wanted to. If it’s about money, I don’t have any at the moment but—’
‘It’s not about money.’
‘What is it about?’
He takes a beat before he replies, with feeling, ‘It’s about the passion. Without passion, there is no good bread.’
A ripple of excitement runs through my body, surprising me. ‘I have passion,’ I say.
‘Do you?’ He raises one dark eyebrow.
‘Yes!’ I say firmly.
He resumes his glass polishing. ‘For bread?’
‘For baking. I love to bake. Baking has got me through some very difficult times in my life, and this challenge is no greater than others I have faced. I need to get theboulangerieup and running, or I can’t get my visa to open mysalon de théat the mill. And without that, the mill will stand empty again, unless you’re in a position to buy it. Which I presume you’re not, or you would have done so by now.’ I stare at him as if no one else is in the room as we cross swords. ‘What about you?’ I narrow my eyes. ‘What’s your passion?’
He looks at me steadily. And sighs. ‘It’s the flour. Your flour is bad. Without good flour, the bread is worthless. Without good flour, you will not make good bread. That, and thesavoir faire.’
